Immortal Trust (44 page)

In one swift follow-up slice, he severed the knight’s head from its neck. Before the darkness could creep down the length of Lucan’s blade, he whirled in a half circle. His sword arm swept before his body and slammed into the demon at his feet. The blade dug deep into the creature’s abdomen, spilling its unholy essence. Its grotesque face contorted. Needle-thin teeth snapped together.

As death claimed the beast, darkness crept over Lucan’s hand to sink into his veins and spread through his body. Fire seared through him, choking off an anguished groan. He staggered under the vile assault that threatened to steal his vision and knock him into unfeeling oblivion. Sword tip braced on the hard stone beneath his feet, he sank to one knee and clung to the pommel, willing himself not to faint.

He pulled in one shallow breath after another until the buzzing in his head ceased. When he no longer felt as if he might topple over face-first, and strength returned to still the shaking of his arms, he lifted his head, prepared to confront Julian. ’Twould take but one blow, severe enough to halt his retreat, but well placed to prevent his death. Then he would drag the man before the archangels, before even Chloe, and force her to recognize the threat her brother posed.

But as Lucan lifted his head, he found no trace of Julian.

Or Chloe.

No footsteps marred the snow between the side entrance and the garden. No Templar charged through the door as they should have if she had made it inside. He turned in a circle, scanning the gardens for some sign of her retreat.

At the sight of two pairs of footprints leading away from the garden to the thick trees beyond, his pulse quickened. It could not be. She would not leave with him. Not when she knew the truth and had accepted her predestined fate.

He squinted to examine the trail more closely. The narrower, leftmost set of tracks scuffed and blurred, as if she had not gone willingly. As if she had been dragged.

His heart lodged in the back of his throat. God’s blood, he had failed her completely. What Azazel would do with her …

Lucan’s veins filled with ice.

CHAPTER 40

Lucan ran through the tunnels, oblivious to the blood streaming down his arms and back. His boots pounded a frantic beat that matched the frenetic thump of his heart. Vision of Iain’s seraph, and the horrifying things Azazel had done to her, played over and over in his head. Chloe laid out on a bed, opening her body to the unholy master’s touch. Chloe embracing his seductive words.

Chloe crumpled on the ground, her heart still warm atop her chest.

And if she could not find the strength to refuse the lord of darkness, she would suffer a worse fate. Bearer of his evil offspring. Willing partner to all his vile desires. Lilith reborn, to reign at his immoral side.

Nay!

Lucan ran faster. He had fought demons, spent a lifetime at war, and had never known true fear. Now, terror coursed through his veins like poison, each clang of his heart spreading the infectious emotion. He burned with it. Broke out in a sweat.

He passed the mess where his brothers dined, their laughter rich and their conversation rumbling with warmth. Heads turned. A shout ricocheted over the din. “Lucan!”

Ignoring the call, he rounded a corner and descended deeper into the temple. Two pairs of boots joined the echo of his. He did not look back. Whoever followed would soon learn what propelled him blindly forward. Soon the entire Order would know he had allowed his heart to override sense and opened Chloe to this fate. If he had not entertained her suggestion to go outside, if he had kept her within these walls until her vows were completed, she would not now suffer.

If he had insisted they move beyond the fence …

At Raphael’s chamber, he did not stop to knock. He shoved the door open with so much force it crashed into the stone wall, then shuddered on its hinges. “Chloe has been taken!”

The exclamation burst from his chest, and he doubled over, hands braced on his knees, panting. “Her brother … took her…”

Behind him, two men skidded to a stop. Their swords clanged against the door frame he blocked. He lifted his head, prepared for the inevitable lecture on his failings.

Raphael slowly extricated himself from behind a small desk. The journal he perused, he closed and set to the side. His gaze fell on Lucan, flat and unemotional. “Sir Knight, you bleed upon my floor. Take yourself to Zerachiel, then we shall speak.”

Shock brought Lucan upright. Mend himself? He had not been wounded significantly enough to warrant the healer’s touch. And he would not waste time with such nonsense whilst Chloe’s life was in danger. “Did you not hear me? Chloe has been taken.”

Raphael lifted a golden eyebrow in reproach. “Did you not hear
me
? You are to take yourself to the infirmary.”

“Nay!” He strode forward and thumped a fist atop the archangel’s desk. “I serve Mikhail. You cannot command me thus. Chloe’s fate is of greater consequence!”

A moment of uncharacteristic anger darkened Raphael’s beautiful face. His blue eyes clouded with sparks. Spots of color stained his cheeks. The air rippled as he undulated his disguised wings. Lucan stood his ground, his own fury equally tangible in the clench of his fingers, the tightness of his jaw. They stared at one another, each unwilling to bend, determined the other would yield.

Then, as if Lucan’s words connected with Raphael’s mind, the archangel turned his back to Lucan. “Alaric, enter,” he murmured with the beckoning of his hand.

From the corner of his vision, Lucan observed le Goix step through the doorway. He moved to Lucan’s side, his spine rigid, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “Aye?”

Behind his desk once more, Raphael bent over. When he stood again and turned to face the men, he held the reliquary in his hands. He dropped it on the desk and leaned his weight atop the lid. As he spoke, his gaze remained on le Goix. “Take Gareth and another of your choosing. Escort Sir Lucan to Zerachiel and see that his wounds are mended fully.”

Anger morphed into fury as Lucan listened to the orders that circumvented the chain of command. He took a step forward, possessed by the urge to drive his fist into Raphael’s teeth. Stuffing a wayward hand against his thigh, he checked himself, aware that to attempt such would be naught but foolish folly. Raphael could steal the breath from his lungs with the lift of a divine finger.

The archangel’s gaze fell on him, laden with warning. “Do not forget yourself, Sir Knight.” He pushed the reliquary to the edge of the desk. “
When
you have healed yourself so you can be of use, you will accompany Alaric and his men through the sixty-third gate, where you will exchange the Veronica for Chloe.” Eyebrows lifted, he looked down his nose. “Lest, of course, you should find my
orders
disagreeable.”

Chagrin squelched the burn of anger, and Lucan relaxed his fist. In the next heartbeat, the full meaning of Raphael’s offering crashed upon him. Exchange the relic? Give Azazel the power he desired? He fumbled for words.

Alaric beat him to a cry of disbelief. “You cannot mean to hand over the key to the cipher!” He cast a sideways glance at Lucan. “My apologies, brother, I know Chloe means much to you. But our purpose is to prevent the acquisition at all costs.”

Lucan nodded. The same conflict waged inside him. Whilst his heart leapt at the one means certain to see his seraph’s return, the idea of surrendering a relic warred with the Order’s very purpose. Sacrilege—’twas as if the archangel sought to play directly into the dark master’s hands!

Raphael clasped his hands at his waist and rounded the desk to stand before the two men. A dip of his head beckoned Gareth inside. He entered, his expression one of equal disbelief.

With a pinched frown, Raphael looked between them. “Need I remind you of Chloe’s importance? If the prophecy is broken, the seraphs who remain shall be lost. All of you will fail. The war we wage becomes certain defeat, and the world we have sought to protect for so long will shrivel under eternal damnation.” His gaze lingered on Lucan. “’Tis more than the matter of your salvation or the love you stand to lose. Were you not part of the prophecy, I would turn my back with the deepest of regrets. Chloe, however, is part of a greater fate. Your oaths more important than your personal pleasure.”

He did not say the words that reflected in his eyes. But Lucan heard them anyway:
If you had considered the greater consequence and brought her here the night of your arrest, this would not be necessary.
Lucan bowed his head under the weight of the truth.

“Do you wish to remind me again who you report to, Lucan? Or do you wish to accept my orders?”

Eyes closed in silent apology, Lucan answered, “I will see Zerachiel.”

“Good then. I trust you shall wish to depart for the catacombs as soon as possible. Since we are agreed, Alaric will remain with me whilst my brother sees to your wounds, and I shall instruct him further.”

Dutifully, Lucan turned toward the door and gripped the thick iron handle.

“One other thing, Lucan of Seacourt.”

He stilled.

“You will take care to mind the state of your soul. My men do not suffer the same weaknesses as Mikhail’s. Under my leadership, you will stay your sword, lest it becomes absolutely necessary to engage.”

Ordered not to fight—again. Lucan squared his shoulders and marched through the door. He would accept many things from Raphael. But even Mikhail could not convince him to stay at the rear and watch others fight. All his life he had lived by the sword. To do naught else defied all he knew.

*   *   *

Chloe huddled in her dark corner, knees drawn to her chest, her swollen cheek gingerly resting on them. She ached from head to toe. The upturned side of her face itched with dried blood. But she dared not lift her hand and scratch, for that might remind Julian—or whoever he was—she was still here. Still alive, despite the fist he had pummeled into her temple.

She watched from the shadowy recesses of a cavern. Dimly, she recalled passing piles of bones. Skulls that leered from stacks of femurs. But her memories stopped at a dead-end in the tunnels, where her brother had turned to her, closed his fingers around her throat, and squeezed until her world went black.

She’d awakened here. Where she’d remained, God only knew how long.

The creature who had attacked her wasn’t her brother, despite their identical appearance. No, Julian lay beside her, stretched out on the wet stone, his body frail, his skin the pallor of death. She inched a hand across the short distance that spanned between them and slid her fingers around his wrist. Faint and weak, his pulse still beat. Relief trickled through her.

Movement on the other side of the small cavern froze her in place. She shifted her eyes to the
thing
that looked like her brother, sounded like her brother, yet somehow, wasn’t. He spoke with a man in a black robe. A robe like so many others she’d seen in the Templar stronghold beneath the cliffs. It bore the mighty crimson cross that identified the knights, and Alaric had explained the men wore them for prayers. But this figure kept his head cloaked with a voluminous hood, unlike the men who had dropped to one knee and sworn their fealty.

Low and resonating, their words echoed off the walls.

“You have done well, Julian. Exceeded Leofric’s expectations. For this you will be rewarded.”

The false Julian shrugged his shoulders. “It was easy with the knight nearby. Had I realized she was a seraph earlier, this wouldn’t have drawn out so long.”

Tell no one.
Lucan’s words echoed in Chloe’s head. Damn it! He’d warned her. And she, because she’d been so convinced what he confided couldn’t
possibly
be true, had laughed it off to her brother. Rather, who she thought was her brother. Whatever that
thing
was—she’d brought this all onto herself.

If she’d just believed what her heart said. If she’d trusted Lucan, as he’d asked so many times … A tear trickled down her bruised cheek to drip onto her knee. She’d had no reason to doubt Lucan. And yet the one thing she wanted the most, an eternity with a man who loved her, terrified her to the point she’d endangered them all.

Now, having accepted her status and purpose, she realized her trepidations caused far more damage than wounding Lucan. She’d risked the Order as a whole. The stench around her told her where she was—in the bowels of the earth, surrounded by evil beings she couldn’t see but that looked on from the crevices in the damp rock.

The hooded man inclined his head toward her. “You should not have beaten her. Azazel will be most displeased that you have bruised his bride.”

“It became a necessity. She scalded me.” The creature extended his hand and pointed at something Chloe couldn’t see on the back of his wrist.

Her eyes widened. She couldn’t remember physically touching him. She’d pried at his wrist, but her fingers didn’t possess half the strength his did. However, she distinctly remembered willing him to let her go. Had the ability Lucan taught her somehow affected him?

Excitement quickened her pulse. If she’d wounded that thing, that could only mean he was a demon. If he was like those creatures in the trees, she could overtake him. Get out of here, maybe, and get back to Lucan.

Eyeing the broad shoulders that perfectly impersonated her brother’s, she drew in a shallow breath.

“Can we kill him now and be done with it? I grow sick of his presence.” The creature jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Julian.

Chloe paused, her breath held. Reaching within herself as deep as she could, she tapped into the restless energy in her veins and envisioned channeling it into a solid mass.

“’Twould change naught. He will still be joined with you, even if the body expires.” The hooded man clapped a hand on the impersonator’s shoulder. “’Twill not be long now. His lungs scarce draw air.”

Gradually, Chloe released her lungfuls of air and slanted her gaze back to her brother’s limp form. Joined with the beast? She blinked. That
thing
was linked to her brother? Oh, good God!
How?